Situation Reports
by Thistle of Liberty
Summary: Bits and pieces of the A-Team, not long enough to be posted as a story of their own. No slash. Warning: coarse language, references to war and mental un-health. EIGHT - Tag to 2x23 "Curtain Call". A late-night conversation between Hannibal and Murdock. NINE - Amy realizes just how dangerous the team is.
1. Tea time

**Genre: General**  
**Warnings: None**

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"Stop the car!" Captain HM Murdock suddenly called out, startling the inhabitants of the van from their stupor-like state. BA reacted immediately and the van came to a screeching halt, throwing both Face and Hannibal forwards.

"Captain?" Hannibal inquired sharply, obviously ready to attack. He turned to face Murdock who adopted his English lord-expression.

"It's tea time", he drawled. The others stared at him for a moment before reacting. Hannibal raised his eyebrows questioningly, Face rolled his eyes and BA turned in his seat to glare at the pilot.

"Crazy fool!" he yelled, "I'ma pound ya if my van's hurt!"

"Now, BA", Murdock continued in the same haughty British drawl, "Tea time is a most important aspect of a civilized gentleman's life."

"He's right, you know", Face agreed with a smirk. BA transferred his glare to the con-man and growled menacingly.

"BA, cool it", Hannibal ordered off-handedly before directing a stern look at Murdock. Face immediately wiped the smirk of his face and looked out the window. Their pilot was in trouble and he had no desire to join him. "Captain, I believe I've told you the story about the boy who cried wolf?"

The pilot looked down at his feet and nodded glumly, obviously getting the unspoken message. Hannibal had indeed told him the story, several times, and he knew its meaning quite clearly. It was just that sitting in a car all day was, well… boring. And then his imagination started reeling and somehow knitting entered his mind, which led to old ladies, whish led to old English ladies, which led to tea. And even though he knew it was childish and stupid and careless he called out.

"You have, Colonel", he admitted.

"And you remember it?"

Murdock nodded again, looking and feeling like a child who had just received a scolding. Their Colonel rarely needed to do more than direct a stern gaze at him and he would immediately cease his affronting behavior. Hannibal nodded and then turned away again, with a simple gesture ordering BA to drive on. Murdock kept gazing at his feet, looking subdued and fidgeting slowly with the zipper of his jacket.

"Colonel?" he ventured quietly after a moment of silence and was answered by a grunt, "I'm sorry."

Hannibal turned again and steadily regarded the pilot for a brief moment before nodding.

"Apology accepted, Captain", he confirmed with a quick smile. His grin widened as he turned around once again and spotted a diner down the road. "Pull over, BA", he ordered cheerfully, "Murdock's right. It _is_ tea time."


	2. Gluing Souls

**Genre: Angst**  
**Warnings: References to suicide attempts/self-harm and general mental un-health. Language. **

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If you ask anyone in the psychiatric world if they can actually fix all the crazies they'll tell you that progress is constantly being made. Sometimes, if they're real honest people, they'll tell you that there are some things that probably can never be cured. But that's always the evil stuff, like psychopathology and sadism. And those guys don't deserve to be cured, anyways.

But if a mother asks whether they'll fix her broken daughter, you know; stitch the wounds together, cover the scars and give her cute white pills, they'll tell her sure they will. They'll never tell her that her sweet, cute, poor, lovely little daughter is gonna die 'cause she can't handle life. They'll fix her.

And that's just the depressions. It's mostly true, with them. The little pills and the compassionate therapists fix it all and the little girl will laugh again in a few months.

It's a hell of a lot worse when it's real madness.

When the families ask the doctor as soon as they're out the door, still able to hear the pounding on the walls and the frantic screams, if their dear Henry, or John or whatever is gonna be all right the doctor never says no. He never tells them that sweet Tommy's soul is so ripped apart, torn open and just generally fucked up that there's no way in hell they can fix it completely.

If they stuff him full of pills and give him EST and make him project his childhood fears onto inanimate object he might just stop screaming one day. He won't tear his eyes out rather than see the things that show themselves to him and he won't pound his head against the floor to stop the pain. If you're lucky he'll know who he is.

But he won't be fixed, not really. There'll always be holes in him that are either empty or he just doesn't dare look down into. There'll always be the scars from when he jumped from the second floor and banged his ankle against a bicycle stand or when he got hold of a razor and he'll always freeze in panic if someone asks about them 'cause he hid them for so long.

That's just the way it is.

But they're never gonna tell you to your face. They're never gonna tell you about how much it fucking hurts to glue a broken soul together. They won't tell you they tied darling Johnny up and took away his stuff 'cause he didn't want to live no more. They won't tell you how he shouted when they made him live another day.

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**A/N: Thank you for reading and please review. And I have a question: English is not my first language and I have great difficulty determining what kind of language warrants what ratings. Does this piece need an M as rating?**


	3. Acting

**A/N: Written for the 2010 Happyfest (http: /community. /bringthehappy/) which you should definitely check out. The prompt was Hannibal/Face "acting lessons". This is gen though.**

**Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort**  
**Warnings: Some language**

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We are all actors, in a way. We in the team, I mean. Hannibal a bit more than Murdock and BA. I mean, hey; the guy dresses up in a lizard suit. He does acting for a living. When he doesn't provoke bad guys, that is. Murdock acts for a living too, in a way. Or maybe he just acts to live. I mean, the guy does have some screws lose, but most of the stuff he pulls is acting. It's for his own sake though, I think, so it's not really being an actor. Any external audience he gets is just accidental. BA would kill me if I said he was an actor. But we all know the tough guy, hate you image is an act. At least Hannibal says we do. Sometimes I'm not so sure.

I'm the one who acts the most, though. Everything I ever do is acting. Sometimes I don't know if I'm acting or not. When I whine, is it an act or is it me being me? Flirting is easy, that's always acting.

I used to think I had no idea who I was. Like an existential crisis that went on and on. It started with not having a real name. I mean, that's the most basic sense of identity you've got, isn't it? And mine was just something the orphanage made up. Then I realized that I was cute. Especially when I smiled. I also realized that people like cute kids. So I started smiling even though there was absolutely nothing to smile about.

It all went downhill from there. I realized that just being me wasn't enough to get what I wanted, or sometimes even what I needed, so I started being something else as soon as someone who could either be useful to me hurt me was around. And there were always those kinds of people around.

And then when I grew up and was expected to mature and evolve into such a nice young man I had no idea what it was that was supposed to mature. I was like this blank paper that everyone had filled with different stuff, but nothing stuck. I was like a little black dress; compatible with everything because I was nothing on my own. I had girls, and cars (usually not my own), and nice clothes and everything else because I needed something to act against, something to determine who I was at any given time.

I joined the army. Don't ask why; it's complicated. You would have expected me to let all the insufferable offices write what they wanted on the piece of paper that was me and become the perfect little soldier. I didn't, because there were already lots and lots of perfect soldiers, and they died almost as easily as the imperfect ones. And now that I was actually faced with the very really possibility of dying I realized that I didn't want to die. I didn't really want to live either, but I really, really didn't want to die.

So I set about making myself into some kind of survival machine. I got everyone important anything they wanted, faked papers, sucked up to the soldiers who could harm me if they wanted to and did everything I could to please everyone. I was 1) a complete bastard and 2) a complete mess. The first because I didn't care who I screwed over when I got what I wanted, because compassion wasn't a trait necessary for survival. The second because I did care, because apparently compassion was something someone had managed to stick to me somewhere along the road. I was confused, lonely and scared (it was 'Nam after all and I really didn't want to die) and though I felt really grown up at the time I realize now that I was just a kid.

And that's when Hannibal found me.

I still don't know why he decided to pick me up. I did get him a car. A really nice car, but he didn't need to put me on his team to get me to do that. He was important and all he had to do was ask and I'd get him anything he wanted. It paid to have important people on your side. But he did pick me up. He took one look at the car and declared it nice and then he took one look at me and apparently decided then and there that I would go on his team.

As I said; I was just a kid so of course I was a bit awed by the great Hannibal Smith. I mean, everyone knew what kind of crazy stuff he did on a daily basis. Impossible stuff. The bad thing was that I didn't know who he wanted me to be. His unit was almost as strange as he was. They were all players I had never acted against before so I had no idea what part I was supposed to play. I didn't know what I was supposed to do.

I think that's why I cried. It was some time after I'd first joined Hannibal. First of all it was one the longest times I'd spent around the same people. I did live several years at the same orphanages, but there were lots of kids there so you didn't have to stay close to anyone unless you wanted to. I didn't. Second, it was definitely the longest I'd been around someone without picking up on who they wanted me to be. I couldn't tell what Hannibal wanted from me (except cigars) and it scared the hell out of me. I was nothing without someone to reflect. So I cried, because I was confused, scared and lonely.

And of course, Hannibal found me again.

He sat down next to me (I was sitting on my cot) and put an arm around me, completely ignoring the fact that I dried away my tears as soon as he entered, turned my face away so he couldn't see my swollen eyes and when he still didn't leave squeaked out a pathetic "go 'way". He didn't let go when I squirmed to get away and he didn't let go when I once again tried to verbalize my dislike of having his arm around my shoulder.

He still doesn't. If Hannibal decides I need to be comforted, I get comforted whether I want it or not. After the first few years of knowing him I realized that the best thing I could do was learning to take that comfort.

I didn't know that back then, though, so instead of soaking up his concerned presence I was trying to figure out who he wanted me to be. The problem was that Hannibal wasn't showing any emotions at all. He was holding me close to him, one arm around my shoulder, but he wasn't looking at me and he wasn't saying anything. He didn't project anything that I could pick up on and it scared the shit out of me. I hadn't been that close to any human being without knowing who to be since I was ten or something.

I didn't need much to decide who to be; if there's just something little you go with something mild. If Hannibal had said something gentle and fatherly I would have sniffled a bit and thanked him. A light touch of son to his light touch of father. If he had sighed exasperatedly I would have laughed uncomfortably and acted all embarrassed before leaving. But he didn't do anything at all. Nothing, except sit there with his arm around me.

To tell the truth I think I was having something of a panic attack. My vision flaring, dizziness and nausea. And almost crippling anxiety. I tried to pull away from him again, more roughly this time, but he kept his hold, forcing me to stay. For a moment I thought I was going to throw up and snidely decided that if I did it would be on Hannibal.

I felt like someone had locked me in a cage completely naked. My heart was beating far too loudly and I had an absurd image of Hannibal being court marshaled for murder by hugging. Sweat was making me all clammy and I decided to steal Hannibal's soap. Or rather a quick image of me climbing in through a bathroom window dressed in a ninja outfit with Hannibal singing in the shower flashed before my eyes. I was so going to make Hannibal pay for a shrink if we got back home.

I was desperately trying to rationalize away the fear and it wasn't working. I was telling myself that it was just Hannibal, that there was nothing to be afraid of, that I was freaking out over nothing but it _wasn't working._ I knew Hannibal was one of the least likely guys in the world to hurt me. I knew he wouldn't throw me off the team because I didn't understand what he wanted. At least I kind of knew it. I know it for sure now, back then I still hesitated. But I did know that he wouldn't beat me or anything like that. Still, none of my carefully laid out arguments made the fear go away.

So since it didn't want to go away I set about pushing the fear out of my conscious. Suppressing it, ignoring it. Trying to pretend it didn't exist. This worked better. I'm good at ignoring things, especially myself. It's rather tedious work, pretending your feelings don't exist. You can't let your mind wander off like you normally do when you aren't busy; you have to concentrate. Sometimes you can find something else to do, and then that's great but it wasn't as if that was an option with Hannibal not letting me get out from under his arm.

I'd had practice though, so it worked. It's not as is if I really calmed down; I mean, I was still tense as hell and breathing evenly and slowly took all my concentration but my heart finally decided to go back to normal and I could form coherent thoughts.

Now, don't ask me how, but of course Hannibal noticed this. For a moment he pulled me a bit tighter, squeezing my shoulder almost too hard, and then he moved his hand to ruffle my hair briefly before standing up and stretching his arms. He turned to look at me and still being a bit pissed off about him ignoring my protests I refused to meet his eyes and studied my sheets sulkily instead. Hannibal didn't say anything, just stared at me for a few seconds more before he turned abruptly and headed straight for the door.

I guess I was a bit shocked, and that was the reason I didn't say anything for a few moments. If your CO sneaked up on you, nearly killed you and then just left without a word you'd want to shout something at him and so did I, but my tongue wasn't working properly so all I managed was rather undignified jaw movements.

"What the hell was that?" I finally managed to get out just as he was about to close the door behind him. He turned around, just in the process of sticking a cigar between his teeth and lighting it.

"Not-acting lesson, kid", he replied with his normal half-crazy grin before turning again and exiting the barrack.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading, please review.**


	4. Paranoid

**Genre: Angst**  
**Warnings: Mental illness/instability**

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**It wasn't as if Murdock had been really normal before. It might have been insanity, or it might just have been eccentricity. But before, Hannibal had always known that Murdock was connected to the real world. Somewhat less firmly than most others, but connected nonetheless. After the war he hadn't been.

Most of the time it was manageable. Because even when he spoke to things that weren't there or listened to voices in his head he trusted the team. When he was convinced there were spirits out to get him he trusted the team to protect him. When the voices told him things he could discuss it with them.

But sometimes Murdock lost his trust in the team. And then seeing Murdock insane really hurt. Sometimes he locked himself in the bathroom, convinced they wanted to kill him. He refused to eat the food they gave him because it might be poisoned. He searched his clothes each morning for dangerous insects that might have been put there. He stared at Hannibal and his eyes held no affection, or trust, or warmth. It was the wary look of a trapped animal.

And that was what really hurt. Hannibal didn't blame Murdock; how could he? The man was crazy. But it hurt, really hurt, to see distrust in eyes that he had got to know so well. It hurt because he was supposed to protect Murdock, not scare him. And it hurt because Hannibal didn't know what to do.

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**A/N: Thank you for reading and please review.**


	5. Caring

**Genre: Angst, I guess.**  
**Warning: Non-explicit het sex with a prostitute.**

**A/N: In my mind this is set in the mid-'70s and Hannibal is (in my canon) depressed and guilt-ridden because his team is like... not mentally OK. He goes to a bar or something and gets picked up by this old-ish semi-prostitute (because he's Hannibal) and they get back to her place to do... adult things.**

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"What's botherin' ya, handsome?" the woman asked, not without sympathy.

Hannibal didn't reply immediately.

"Do you have children?" he asked instead, after a long silence.

The woman looked amused, her mouth curving into a lopsided grin that only served to make her look older. Hannibal reconsidered his original evaluation of her age; she was closer to fifty.

"Hon, I'm a prostitute", she said.

Hannibal indicated his head slightly in acknowledgment, he too smiling wryly. A point to her.

"Do _you_ have children?" she then asked. Hannibal shrugged, his bare shoulder rubbing against hers.

"No", he said. The woman turned to gaze at him with something new in her look, curiosity mixed with suspicion.

"You ain't a pedophile, are you?" she asked. Hannibal's head whipped around to face her, completely startled. For a moment he just stared at her, trying to find the joke or waiting for her to start laughing. Neither happened.

"No", he said, when he realized the question was genuine, "Most certainly not."

"I could'ave guessed", she said, "You ain't the type for perversity."

Hannibal laughed, a hollow, raw sound even to himself. He supposed it was a compliment. A strange and twisted compliment, but still a compliment. He liked this woman.

"But you're dangerous", she said, the comment as sudden and unexpected as her question had been. Her face was set into a very soft frown, almost discernable, and Hannibal turned away. "Don't be offended, hon! You _are_ dangerous. A killer. That what's botherin' ya?"

"I'm a soldier", he said, no emotion in his voice, "A Colonel, actually. _That's_ what's bothering me."

"What? Career trouble?"

Hannibal shook his head, then reconsidered and gave a slight laugh.

"Well, you could say that", he admitted, "But that's not the problem."

"What is, then?"

Hannibal hesitated.

"My men", he said.

"Oh", was all the woman said. It was a sound of understanding, of knowing sympathy.

"Oh?" Hannibal parroted, turning to look at the older woman. She shrugged.

"I knew a soldier once. A long time ago. He was an officer, as well", she explained. Hannibal nodded.

"What happened?"

Sadness suddenly showed in her eyes, gone almost as soon it came.

"He killed himself", she said.

Hannibal wasn't sure what to say. He killed himself. How do you respond to that?

"Why?"

"He cared too much. Soldiers shouldn't care."

A frown creased Hannibal's brow, his eyes hardening slightly. This was easy to answer.

"Caring it what makes us human."

"Caring is what makes us hurt."

"Doesn't matter."

The woman laughed at that; a hoarse, bitter and not at all humorous laugh. She sat up and straddled Hannibal's body, her skinny legs hugging his hips and her arms tracing patterns on his chest. It wasn't particularly arousing.

"Why would you want to be human if it hurts you?" she asked, leaning forward and kissing Hannibal harshly. "What's the point? Why d'ya care about your men more than yourself when all it does it hurt you?" Another kiss. "Why d'ya even bother with them?"

Hannibal closed his eyes and smiled sadly, putting his arms around the prostitute and pulling her towards him.

"Because I care", he mumbled, almost inaudibly, before he kissed her deeply. They didn't say anything more that night and when Hannibal left in the morning the woman was already gone.

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**Thank you for reading, please review.**


	6. Telling

**Genre: Angst**  
**Warnings: Self-harm, mental un-health**

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How do you tell a guy who would willingly tear out his own heart to save your life that you tried to end it? How do you tell him that you hurt yourself when you've seen him beaten within an inch of his life to save you from pain? What do you say when he asks why you won't take your jacket off? When you know that you can't lie to him because he has done so much for you that the least you owe him is the truth? How do you make him understand that it wasn't his fault?

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**A/N: My first proper drabble. Exactly 100 words. Thank you for reading, please review.**


	7. Inquiries

**Captcha says: overlook inquiry.**

**Genre: General**  
**Warnings: Mentions of mental un-health**

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Being called to a superior officer's office was normally not a good thing. Being called to a superior officer's office usually meant lectures, or reprimands, or sad words about never flying again.

HM Murdock knew this from experience. Always after the first few weeks with new guys, he'd be called to whoever was in charge. They always loved him when he first came; he could fly them anywhere, whenever they wanted. But after the foist weeks spent in awe of his almost unnatural control over the choppers, there were always the questions. Why had he been transferred so much? Why didn't people want to keep him? And then they made inquiries.

They saw his record. Saw the bouts of something resembling schizophrenia. Saw the note of a suicide attempt. Saw the descriptions of hallucinations. And then they told him they didn't want him anymore. It was too dangerous, he wasn't really fit for this, it would be better for him somewhere else.

But he was damned good pilot, and they couldn't send him home just because of some craziness. No, they dumped on the next unsuspecting camp and hoped that it would be a while until they too figured it out.

And now it seemed that these guys had. He should have known that it wouldn't last long. He had hoped that the infamous Col. John Smith would maybe just overlook his past and let him stay, because it wasn't as if the Colonel adhered particularly strictly to military convention. But madness, Murdock guessed, was too much.

He knocked on the Colonel's door and an authoritative voice asked him to enter. He obeyed and saluted as he stepped in front of the man's desk.

"Captain Murdock, Sir", he introduced himself, "You wished to see me, Sir."

Smith studied him closely for a moment, before he nodded briefly. "Quite right, Captain. Take a seat."

At least, Murdock mused, the man was kind enough to let him sit down and make himself comfortable before he was condemned once more. He obediently took of his hat and took a seat very properly in the chair in front of Smith's desk. The Colonel was distractedly thumbing a bunch of papers, not looking at them but instead watching Murdock sitting primly on the edge of the chair.

"I'm very pleased with your flying, Captain", Smith began and Murdock acknowledged the praise with a murmured "sir". The Colonel continued. "I looked briefly at your background, and I thought it was strange that you'd been flung 'round so much so I decided to dig a little deeper."

There it was. Murdock knew what would come next. Either angry accusations, wary looks or apologetic reassurances. He wanted none of them. When Smith didn't say anything more, he realized he was expected to answer and cleared his throat as discreetly as possible.

"Sir?" he said politely. Smith looked at him hard for a moment, before raising his eyebrows and smiling.

"You're insane, Captain", he said, "Everyone thinks so. You're also prone to depression. Everyone agrees that if this war didn't need pilots you'd be holed up in a madhouse."

This was not exactly the way it was supposed to go. Officers took the news of his alleged mental state differently, of course, but no-one had ever been amused by it. And Smith seemed amused, more than anything. The depressions were mentioned with a darkening of his gaze and a frown, as if he disapproved of their existence, but the rest of his judgment was delivered with a slight smile.

"Yes, Sir", Murdock said, when the Colonel paused in obvious expectation of an answer. It didn't matter that he was amused. Reasonable officers couldn't possibly keep a madman on their team, and colonels were always reasonable. It was in the job requirements.

"Is it true?"

That _really_ wasn't in the script for how to fire insane pilots. It was in the file, and that was all that mattered. But Murdock was unable to shake off the feeling that this might be something; that this might lead to something not usual, so he answered truthfully.

"Mostly, Sir."

Smith nodded thoughtfully and leant back in his chair. "You admit you're insane?"

He didn't sound all that incredulous, instead just a little surprised. Perhaps, in Smith's strange world, crazy pilots weren't that uncommon. After all, Murdock had been told that the man was _unusual_. The question was at least honest. That much Murdock could say for certain, but that didn't make answering any easier. The question of whether there was something wrong with him or not had plagued him through all his childhood and adolescence, and even though the hallucinations hadn't started until after university he had always suspected that something other than his feelings were a bit off.

"I don't know, Sir", he replied, honestly, "I see things sometimes. I have moments when I don't know what's real. And… and there are depressions. And anxiety. But I don't know if I'm crazy, Sir. No-one's ever told me."

"No-one's ever told you..?" the Colonel repeated and then lapsed into silence. He wasn't looking at Murdock, but staring into space and seemingly thinking intently. Murdock was nervous. This man was someone he could enjoy serving under, and it seemed, for the first time since what seemed like forever, that he might be allowed to keep flying him and his men, even with his flaws uncovered.

"Y'know, Captain", Smith continued suddenly, "I've been told I'm crazy. I'm not, though. But whether you're crazy or not isn't really important. You're a damn good pilot, and I want you. What matters is if you can handle this?"

Smith made a gesture indicating everything around him; the camp, the soldiers, the war. He was watching Murdock intently, his uncanny blue eyes fixed on Murdock's face and seemingly never blinking. Murdock swallowed nervously, but managed to reply in a steady voice.

"Yes, Sir", he said. "I can."

The Colonel nodded with a bright smile. "Then, my dear Captain", he said, "I think we can overlook this little inquiry. And call me Hannibal."

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**A/N: What depresses me is that I should be doing school work instead...**

**Anyways, thank you for reading and please review!**


	8. Saving

**Genre: Hurt/comfort, family, friendship**  
**Warnings: None**

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Murdock was injured, and it was all Hannibal's fault.

Turning your back on an enemy was a rookie mistake; one Hannibal would have scolded any of his men for. And yet he managed to do it himself, too fueled up on the jazz and too arrogant for the good of the men. He was relieved to be alive, of course, but he couldn't help but feel that Murdock shouldn't have taken that bullet for him. It was Hannibal who was supposed to protect his boys, not the other way around.

And then he'd almost lost Murdock a second time by waiting too long to give themselves over to the MPs. Evading the military had become second nature to him, but Murdock's life was more important than a lifetime in prison. He could at least console himself with the firm knowledge that if it had been just him at stake and not Face and BA he wouldn't have hesitated.

Still, they had managed to get themselves out the jam they were in, get Murdock to a hospital and patched up and then on to a non-descript motel where they could lay low for a while and let Murdock regain his strength. They'd only been there for a day and Murdock's temperature still wasn't what Hannibal wanted it to be. Not worryingly high, but enough that they wouldn't be moving for a while.

Hannibal had sent BA and Face to bed, seeing the exhaustion clearly in their bearing and in their faces. He himself couldn't sleep, however. Not even when Murdock had descended into a fairly peaceful slumber and was no longer writhing in nightmares. Because this was his fault, damn it, and the least he could do was watch over his pilot when he was still so very weak and vulnerable.

Suddenly Murdock whimpered, turning on his side and raising a hand in his sleep to itch at his wound. Hannibal, as gently as possible, intercepted the movement and pushed the arm down again. Murdock let out another small whimper, his eyelids fluttering, and after turning restlessly once more he opened his eyes to slits and peered at Hannibal.

"Han'bal?" he mumbled.

"Yes," Hannibal replied, making his tone as soothing as he could, "Go back to sleep, Murdock."

The pilot frowned, looking like he was concentrating hard. "Is it night?"

"Yeah. About two o'clock."

"Why aren't you asleep?"

Hannibal smiled gently, running a hand over Murdock's hair. "Never mind that. How're you feeling?"

"'M good," Murdock replied, offering a tired smile, "How're you?"

Not able to hold back a small chuckle at that, Hannibal shook his head in fond exasperation. Trust Murdock to ask that when he was the one who'd been shot and nearly died. Beneath the crazy surface was a caring and sometimes far too perceptive man who never seemed to run out of concern for others.

"I'm perfectly fine, Murdock," Hannibal said, "Thanks to you."

Murdock frowned, gazing up at Hannibal with wide, concerned eyes. "'S just that you look a li'l troubled, muchacho."

"I'm worried about you," Hannibal replied after a short debate with himself. On one hand he had no wish to burden Murdock with anything more, and the pilot _would_ be troubled by the knowledge that Hannibal was worried. On the other hand Murdock would probably be more worried if he didn't tell him; concocting some crazy scenario in his mind.

"I'ma be okay, Colonel. Don't need to worry 'bout me."

"I always worry about you boys."

"Sure, but you don't always sit up watchin' us sleep. At least I hope you don't," the pilot added the last part with a crooked smile, not quite masking his pain with the characteristic levity. At least not from Hannibal, who knew him well enough to read him like a book. Usually, at least.

"I don't always watch you get shot because I messed up, either," he replied, feeling his expression tense as he remembered the moment of pure dread he'd felt as the gunshot had gone off and Murdock had fallen to the ground. The pilot started to shrug, but stopped himself with a wince and a pained grimace. Instinctively, Hannibal moved his hand to the younger man's shoulder and gently squeezed it. "Easy, Captain."

Murdock nodded tensely, giving a small smile that didn't look at all convincing. "You'd 'ave done the same for me."

Hannibal snorted, shaking his head with a wry smile. "Yeah, but you shouldn't _have_ to do it for me. I protect you, not the other way around."

"You sayin' I should 'ave let you die?" Murdock demanded, his brow furrowed either in confusion or anger. Quite possibly a bit of both. Hannibal sighed.

"No, I guess not," he said, then paused, "And I'm grateful. And proud of you. But that doesn't change the fact that you shouldn't have to save my life."

Suddenly looking very shy, Murdock turned his gaze to the covers, fiddling with a loose thread as he bit his lip slightly. "Well… I just figured it was time to return the favor. You been savin' my life for over ten years, Colonel."

Hannibal remained quiet, partly because he had nothing to say and partly because his throat had just constricted in a very uncomfortable way. So instead he just smiled weakly and patted the younger man's shoulder again.

"Go to sleep, Murdock," he said softly, "I'll be here when you wake up."

The reassurance was as much for his own sake as for Murdock's, to be honest, but the soft smile on the younger man's face confirmed that he had needed it as well.

"I know," was all Murdock said before promptly falling asleep again, a small smile still on his face.


	9. Dangerous

**Genre: General**  
**Warnings: off-screen killing**

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Amy knew that the team was dangerous. She'd have to be stupid not to have realized it after seeing them handle machine guns and what not with the ease most people handled the television remote. She'd see them throw grenades, jump from buildings and blow cars up without once losing their smiles or abandoning their banter. If they wanted something done, they got it done.

But it was a harmless sort of danger. They could put the bad guys in jail, they could shoot things up and Amy didn't doubt it that they could kill when the situation demanded it. But what she had never associated with them was cold, effective ruthlessness. And that was what was really dangerous.

Then Face disappeared. Nor during a mission –kidnapped by the sleazy criminals they were up against at the moment – but disappeared for real. Amy didn't know just what was different, but this time Hannibal seemed convinced Face really was in danger. Suddenly the guys weren't the benevolently crazy misfits she'd known. BA was suddenly scary for really, and the strangely intense look in Murdock's eyes was frightening as well. But worst of all was Hannibal. Amy had always known that BA could throw a man out a window if he was angered, and she had known that Murdock was actually sort of insane. Hannibal, though, was just a crazy guy with a wide grin and unorthodox plans. He wasn't really _dangerous_.

But with Face kidnapped the lively spark in Hannibal's eyes disappeared and instead his gaze turned cold, along with his voice and all the rest of him. That was the first time she saw him strike a defenseless man. It was the first time she realized that though Hannibal was easy going and fun and nice most of the time he was a soldier and soldiers were trained to kill.

It was strange, the way things changed during the days they hunted down Face's abductors. There were no longer any good-hearted arguments or any complaints about Hannibal's crazy plans. Hannibal gave an order and it was executed without hesitation. There weren't any elaborate scams to get stuff. Hannibal pulled out a gun and put it to the head of whoever was opposing them and told them in that cold, ruthless voice to do what he wanted. People always did.

She'd asked Murdock, because he was the one least likely to bite her head off, if that what was Hannibal had been like in Vietnam. Murdock had looked at her, and then looked away again shaking his head slowly.

"Most of the time, no. But when things got real dangerous… he was… well, worse."

Amy swallowed at that. She supposed she could imagine it in some way, a Hannibal without the jazz. A Hannibal who didn't smile when he pulled his crazy stunts, who didn't laugh and who didn't joke. A Hannibal who was a soldier all the way through.

They located Face fairly quickly; mostly, Amy thought, because the world in general decided it was the wisest course to bend to Hannibal's will. They didn't let her come when they went to free Face, and when they left they looked grimmer than she had ever seen them. They looked like soldiers going to war.

When they returned she realized why the team had been so very worried; Face looked as if he had been beaten within an inch of his life. All of them were subdued that night, and Murdock and BA only went to bed after Hannibal ordered them to. He, however, stayed by Face's bedside through the night.

The next morning when Amy was leafing through the newspaper during breakfast, her attention was quickly caught by a story about a shoot-out the day night before. Three people dead.

That was when she realized that she could never really be part of the team. Not because she was a woman among four men or because she was a newcomer, but because they were in spite of all their friendliness and joking a team of trained killers.

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**Review, please?**


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